SATISH
Ninety seconds. Or less.
From the proximity of the sirens’ wails, Satish had to act fast. He called the only lawyer he trusted. Ex-DA Reese Macfarland answered on the first ring. She’d told him six years ago after he’d saved her older brother’s life, that four people knew her private number. Sirens screamed.
They’re entering the lane.
His speaking-faster-than-the-speed-of-sound gene kicked in. He finished filling Reese in on Nicholas’s killing just as a sledgehammer-hand pounded the front door. A booming, take-no-shit voice announced the arrival of the LAPD—a department with twenty sworn officers, strong and loud. When was the last time they’d worked a homicide?
“Corral your friend and her kids in another room,” Reese ordered. “Order them to say zip. Not a word. Let the cops inside. Give them your name. Identify the body. Say nada for twenty minutes.”
She arrived in twelve minutes—two behind Dimitri Karpov.
*****
“Where’s my son?” The thunderous, unmistakable voice of Dimitri Karpov shook the chandelier over the dining room table where Satish sat with three dazed Romanovs.
“Down. Now.” He shoved the kids under the dining room table.
“Where is he, you assholes?” Dimitri’s voice rose.
“Alexandra.” AnnaSophia lunged across the table where her older daughter lay face down, eyes shut, mouth open, on the tablecloth.
“I’ve got Alexandra covered.” Kicking away the chair next to Alexandra, Satish pushed AnnaSophia downward. Dammit, he should’ve sequestered everyone in the family room.
“I’ll sue this fucking department and every cop in it for incompetence,” Karpov yelled.
Heart thundering, Satish rounded the table, picked up the unconscious girl, lowered her to the floor, and whispered to AnnaSophia, “Call 9-1-1 for backup.”
“This is a crime scene, sir.” There was a hitch in the young cop’s voice.
“Out of my way, asshole.” The crack of a hand added menace to the demand.
The two kids and AnnaSophia flinched, but she kept the phone pressed to her ear and touched Satish’s arm. “Another psychopath.”
“Something in the water.” Head ducked, Satish crabbed out from under the table without smacking his head. He got his feet under him and drew his Glock.
“On the floor, sir. You’re under arrest for assaulting a police officer.”
And he’s about to assault another one. Satish sprinted across the dining room, pressed his back to the wall, and peered around the corner.
“You think I give a fuck?” A fist in the bulldog’s face sent him staggering backward a couple of steps before pitching forward, his nose spurting blood.
In one fluid movement, Karpov’s goon raised his saw-offed shotgun. The CSI guy put his hands on top of his head and edged away from Nicholas’s body on his haunches.
Scared shitless. Satish pulled his head back against the wall and took a deep breath, letting oxygen travel from his toes to his head.
“What happened?” Karpov screamed at the kid.
He’s losing it. Satish inched his head around the corner again. Where the hell was back-up?
The CSI guy lowered his shuddering arms from on top of his head. Laid them across his knees. Pressed his face into them.
Tears coursed down Karpov’s red, twisted face, but they failed to soften the father’s rage. “Who? Killed? My? Son?”
The CSI guy flinched. His shoulders heaved. A sob escaped his throat. He refused to lift his head, but he shook it, continuing to stare between his shaking legs—perhaps at the dark puddle staining his shoes and carpet.
“Look, Dimitri. The coward pissed himself. Want I should scare the shit out of him too?” The goon danced in place.
The mocking tone cracked open something in Satish’s aching skull. Jaw locked, he stepped from behind the dining room wall and fired one shot into the goon’s left calf. Yowling, he crashed to the floor, his bloodless face in the CSI guy’s piss.
Karpov whipped around, face contorted, mouth rictus, eyes telegraphing, You’re dead.
Sick of the blood and carnage, Satish planted his feet and fired another shot. His bullet tore through Karpov’s handmade Italian slipper and spun him around.
Thought he was going for a gun, Reese.
“You need help getting to the other room?” Satish asked the glassy-eyed CSI tech. Better to have one less witness—just in case.
*****
Four hours later, Satish closed the front door on Reese Macfarland and exhaled. The last cop, forensics tech, ME, and EMT had straggled out with the dead and the wounded half an hour before she repeated instructions to Satish and AnnaSophia in a voice stripped of emotion.
No matter who calls, speak only with me. No one else. No one. Understand?
They nodded—puppets on short strings. Whether Reese realized they’d morphed into zombie-puppets or whether she was exhausted after cutting a deal to appear in the DA’s office the next day with them in tow or whether she left hoping she’d hacked through their near catatonia, Satish refused to speculate.
He returned to the family room, collapsed on the sofa, and kneaded AnnaSophia’s neck muscles. The tension in them could snap every vertebra in her spine. Certain she’d hear nothing he said, he carried on a mental debate in silence.
Was the rock growing in his chest growing because he was taking advantage of her?
He veered away from the answer and fell back on logic. She needed to retreat from tonight’s horrors. Tomorrow would bring uglier nightmares.
AnnaSophia stirred. Time to check Alexandra. Possible concussions required vigilance. She groaned, sat up, and gave him the saddest smile he’d ever seen. How did she know to the minute an hour had passed since her last exam? She slipped off the sofa without speaking and moved like a ghost to where Alexandra, like Magnus, Molly, Anastaysa, and Mr. Kitty, lay sleeping on down-filled sleeping bags in mounds of pillows and piles of comforters. Anastaysa had proposed the make-shift beds, clenching the idea with total honesty.
Magnus and I want to be with you, Mamá. It was a statement Satish understood.
After AnnaSophia finished Alexandra’s checkup, she stopped for a moment beside her other two children. Neither moved. She shook her head at Molly, instantly alert. The dog laid her head back on her master’s rising and falling chest. Her eyes remained watchful. AnnaSophia leaned over Anastaysa, hands open at her sides, jaw relaxed, and sighed.
A knot closed Satish’s throat. He had no doubts the kids had pitched off the high wire of consciousness into sleep with sublime trust. Memories of his own childhood unwound. Mère entering his room three, four times every night. Never speaking. Just standing in the doorway. Some nights he watched her from under his lashes. Other nights he dreamed, comforted by the tangible sense of her presence.
The young Romanovs—Alexandra included—managed to sleep after a daylight nightmare because they had no doubts their mother had spread a safety net wide enough to catch all three.
In the dimly lit room, her face glowed with angelic incandescence. Clichéd? Let the cliché police bust his cojones.
Oxymoronic?
Angels killed if necessary.
His chest tightened. Nicholas’s death had been necessary. The need to hold her, touch her, reassure her that she’d taken the right action scalded his gut.
Cheeks pale, she rejoined him on the sofa. He shifted, giving her more space.
Giving you distance from temptation. He swallowed and stared straight ahead.
Without warning, she leaned into him. His heart stopped, but she climbed onto his lap and wrapped her arms around his neck.
“Hold me. Please. Hold me.” Her eyes, dull with fatigue, dull with confusion, dull with fear, promised nothing besides that moment.
His dick swelled, but he drank in her radiance, laying her head in the crook of his shoulder. “Close your eyes. Sleep. I’ll wake you in an hour.”